“Your bedroom.”
I cross the threshold and feel my chest loosen for the first time since stepping off the elevator. The room is painted in soft blues and greens that remind me of the ocean, with hints of silver woven through the bedding and curtains. A massive bed dominates the center, piled with pillows that look soft enough to drown in. The furniture is elegant without being cold, and someone has placed fresh flowers on the nightstand in a crystal vase that catches the fading evening light.
"This is beautiful." The words slip out before I can stop them, raw with the surprise I feel blooming in my chest.
Drake watches me from the doorway, his expression unreadable. "I'm glad you approve."
He leads me back into the hallway and stops at the next door. His bedroom.
The contrast hits me like a wave of dark water. Where my room is soft and light, his is all shadow and intensity. Heavy wood furniture in deep mahogany. Sheets the color of aged wine spread across a bed that sits in the center of the room with no headboard, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Chicago skyline like a living painting. Two lamps on matching nightstands provide the only warmth in a space that feels more like a lair than a sanctuary.
I spot the door to his bathroom and glimpse marble and glass stretching into a space nearly as big as my entire apartment back in the city. The sight of it makes my stomach clench with the sharp reminder of just how different our worlds really are.
And then I notice another door. One that sits in the wall between our rooms.
Drake notices me notice. His gray eyes track my gaze and hold there, and the air between us thickens with implications neither of us speaks aloud.
He steps into my space, close enough that his body heat bleeds through the thin fabric of my blouse. Close enough that I have to make a choice. I either step back to meet his eyes, or tilt my head all the way up and maintain the contact of our shared warmth.
I don't want to break this. Whatever this is.
So I tilt my head back, baring the column of my throat in a gesture that feels more vulnerable than I intended. Like this, with him looking down at me with those storm-gray eyes, it feels like he could kiss me at any moment. The thought sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly where it has no business being.
"If there is ever a problem," he says in a low rumble that vibrates through my chest, "you have full access to me at all times."
Oh. My mind falls straight in the gutter and for a second I can’t even pretend not to understand the implications of his offer. "Um. Thank you." The words feel inadequate and way too light for the weight of the moment. I'm not even sure if it's the right answer, or if I should say something else.
He holds my gaze for three more heartbeats before stepping back, and the sudden absence of his warmth leaves me feeling untethered.
"Come. There's food."
When he turns away I swear I catch a hint of a smirk on his lips. The rat bastard is toying with me.
I flick away my annoyance when we move down the hallway and step into the kitchen. It smells different now that we're standing in it properly. Rich and savory, with undertones of garlic and herbs that make my stomach growl despite the nerves still jangling beneath my skin. My stomach growls and I clamp a hand over my midriff.
“Sorry about that,” I offer, feeling heat color my face. “I didn’t exactly have the stomach for food this morning.”
Drake moves to the stove and lifts the lid on a pot, releasing a cloud of steam that carries the scent of something hearty and homemade.
"You'll meet Marta tomorrow. She cooks for Rafael as well as for me." He pulls two plates from a cabinet and begins serving with the efficiency of someone who has done this many times before. "She left dinner warming for us."
So he knows his way around the kitchen. Interesting. Another piece of the puzzle that is Drake Moses makes its way into my mental file cabinet.
He sets a plate in front of me and gestures to one of the stools at the island. I climb up and settle onto the leather seat, watching as he serves himself and rounds the counter to take the stool beside mine instead of the one across from me.
The proximity makes my breath catch. His massive frame settles onto the stool and he turns toward me, his body open and angled in my direction. All I would have to do is lean in a little and he could wrap his arms around me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that I try to disguise by reaching for my fork.
"Tell me about your family." His voice is casual, but I can feel the weight of intention behind the question. "About Victor. About how this all started."
I slice into the tender chicken and bring a bite to my lips, savoring the rich blend of garlic and rosemary that melts across my tongue. The meal is simple but perfect, the kind of home-cooked comfort I haven't tasted in years. I take another bite, then another, letting the warmth settle in my stomach while I figure out how much to share. The food and the strange intimacy of this moment loosen my tongue more than I expect.
"Victor has been collecting on my father's debts for five years." I keep my eyes on my plate, unable to look at Drake while I speak. "My father was a gambling addict. When he died, the debts passed to us. To me, specifically, since I was the oldest and my mother was too broken to handle the collectors."
"You’ve been paying this debt since you were nineteen.”
It’s a statement not a question.
I nod. “About that, yes.”
